


Boyfriend in Canada

by ratcrimes



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Still NHL Players, College Hockey, M/M, POV Outsider, or prospects in some cases
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:20:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23570632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratcrimes/pseuds/ratcrimes
Summary: Sam shrugged. “I don’t need people to know things about me.”That didn’t seem right to Tyson, but it wasn’t something he could argue with either.(Or: Sam has a fake boyfriend.)
Relationships: Samuel Girard/Erik Johnson, established J. T. Compher/Tyson Jost
Comments: 10
Kudos: 263





	Boyfriend in Canada

**Author's Note:**

> actual ages/timelines/seasons are fudged for narrative purposes, especially among the younger set. Tyson Jost really did play NCAA hockey for the Fighting Hawks, but I know nothing about his time there except that it happened. The NCAA careers for JT/Kerf/Sam are completely made up. also I didn't research anything about UND.
> 
> this isn't one of those "homophobia doesn't exist and everyone is out" universes, but nothing is really played for drama.
> 
> thank you to [heroics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heroics/) for looking over this!! started in the same colloquium etc etc

When Tyson had left Sam’s apartment earlier in the week, all of Sam’s belongings had been stacked up against the walls and his curbside-rescue furniture had been clustered shyly in the middle of the floor. It was still a work in progress when Tyson walked in the first Friday after classes started, but the TV was set up, the couches were facing it, and there was a big pile of folded-flat boxes near the door. The whole thing felt a lot emptier and a lot less messy than the apartment Tyson had shared with JT and Kerf and then JT and Kerf and Sam.

Tyson looked around at all of it. He recognized a couple of things—the ugly rag rug in the corner, the video games and Switch stacked in milk crates under the TV. Weirdly enough it felt homier than his own brand-new apartment, shared with one of the Fighting Hawks’ freshmen.

There was a voice coming from the kitchen, too low for Tyson to make out the words, but the tone wasn’t Sam’s. And he could smell something tomato-y. Sam probably had a podcast going; he always did when he cooked. Thank god. Tyson was _bored, _and he didn’t know his new roommate at all, and with his boyfriend settled in Denver and Kerf off to Toronto it was just him and Sam left from their little group of draftees. Some of the other guys on the Hawks were alright but it still felt weird to talk about NHL stuff with them. Weirder now that Tyson was hitting his junior year without a call-up in sight.

Sam still hadn’t come out of the kitchen, probably didn’t hear the door. Tyson thought about trying to be sneaky but Sam might have been holding a knife or frying pan or something. “Hey, Sammy!” Tyson called. “You making dinner for me?”

“No!” Sam yelled back, and as Tyson walked up to the kitchen doorway he saw Sam tell his phone, “My teammate is here, call you later, bye,” before hurriedly hanging up on a FaceTime call. Tyson didn’t even have time to make out the face on the screen.

Tyson blinked. “Okay.” Sam looked flustered, like Tyson had caught him at something. He wasn’t holding a knife but there was a big pot of boiling pasta on the stove, so not being sneaky was probably the right call. “You good, man?”

“Yes,” Sam said, and went back to stirring what looked like a pot of tomato sauce and meatballs. His phone lit up again and he hurriedly stuffed it in his pocket. “Did you knock? I didn’t hear you.”

“No,” Tyson said, and then blinked. “Oh, shit, I kinda forgot we don’t live together anymore? Sorry man, you want your key back?” Sam had just given it to Tyson so he could help with moving, probably. And he’d barged into his house like an asshole. Face warm, Tyson started digging in his pocket for the keyring.

Sam waved him off. “Not a problem. Just text me next time.”

Relaxing a little, Tyson shoved the keys back into his pocket. “Yeah, I’ll think about it." He had never been able to figure out how much Sam liked him and how much they were just forced together by proximity. Sam was always so quiet, not much of a complainer. He had been _actual _friends with Kerf, first, and JT and Tyson kind of came as a package deal. They’d been alright as roommates though, so that probably counted for something. “Is that spaghetti? Do I get some?”

“Sure, but you owe me takeout,” Sam said. “Do you need something? Or were you just bored?”

“The second one,” Tyson admitted. “It’s the first weekend of the semester—you wanna go out later? I could wingman for you, I’m a great wingman.”

“You are not,” Sam said firmly. Which was unfair. Tyson had definitely helped him pick up before. Tongue between his teeth, Sam scooped out some of the pasta water and left it sitting out on the ugly plastic countertop. “And I have a boyfriend, so no wingmanning.”

“Wait, _what_? Since when?”

“This summer,” said Sam. “We’ve been talking for a while but he doesn’t live here, so—” He adjusted the strainer in the sink, flicked off the burner, and then dumped the whole pot of pasta into it.

Tyson wrinkled his nose as steam filled the kitchen. “No, I mean, since when were you into dudes?”

Sam laughed. “Since always? You seemed so happy to have a straight friend. I didn’t want to correct you.”

“Oh my god,” Tyson said. He’d made so _many _jokes about Sam being the token straight. No wonder Kerfy always looked constipated when he did that. While Sam finished up doing competent-cook-type things to the spaghetti Tyson texted _wtf sammy g isn’t straight????? _to his group chat with JT and Kerf. How in the hell did Sam keep that to himself? “Who’s the boyfriend, then? Is he hot? Do you have pictures? Where’s he from?”

It took Sam a second to respond. Something about rapid-fire Q and A always bogged down his English. Tyson used to apologize but after the first couple of times Sam told him apologies only broke his concentration. Sam held up his hand and ticked the answers off on his fingers. “Not your business, yes, no, and um.” Sam hesitated. “He’s living in California.”

Which all sounded…huh.

“So are you just lying?” Tyson asked.

“Why would I be lying?” Sam frowned at him. “This isn't Disney Channel. I wouldn’t make up a boyfriend.”

Slowly, Tyson nodded. “Uh-huh. You just suddenly have a boyfriend who you’ve been talking to for ages but I don’t know about, whose name you won’t tell me, who you don’t have any pictures of even though you’re long distance, and he lives in California.”

“What’s wrong with California? Lots of people live in California.” Sam’s frown deepened. Something about the scowl and his steam-damp hair and attempt at a mustache made him look like a miniature mobster.

Tyson nodded sagely. “Sounds like what somebody making up a boyfriend would say.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “He’s just not out, you know? I don't tell you everyone I text. And the whole relationship is still new.” Sam’s phone lit up. Tyson leaned over to see if there was anything from a real boyfriend, but he just glimpsed one text from JT and another from a string of horse emojis—the previews were turned off, so that was all he could make out before Sam yanked his phone away. “Why is JT apologizing for you sitting in my lap?”

“Oh shit.” Tyson had done a lot of that last year, huh? “I just did it 'cause I thought you were straight.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “You're not my type anyway. No worries.”

“What is your type, then?” Tyson leaned forward. “C’mon, buddy, describe your totally real boyfriend to me.”

Sam heaved out a sigh. “Go get the bowls,” he said. “The sooner we eat this spaghetti, the sooner you go crash a frat party.”

* * *

Most of the time Tyson felt good about going with NCAA hockey. He got more out of the experience than he ever would have in juniors, played against adults instead of sixteen-year-olds, and having the Fighting Hawks on his resume could only help him. He liked being in a college town, where it was easy to meet people outside the team. He liked UND’s campus, and Grand Forks more generally, felt like it was a good city to get his first real taste of living on his own as an adult.

The one downside of playing college hockey was that he still had to take college classes. So even on days when practice just made him want to lay down and die, there was schoolwork to be done.

“Sammy,” he demanded as they were leaving the rink, starting up the long hilly trek to the trolley stop, “come study with me.”

“Can’t,” said Sam. He always got kind of short and crabby after practices and games.

Tyson blinked. “It’s _Tuesday._” JT and Tyson and Kerf had started Tuesday study days when they were all freshmen together, and Sam had joined in the next year. They couldn’t all make it all the time, but their schedules were close enough that there was always _someone _available. Tyson and Sam had kept up the tradition without talking about it.

Of course, now there were just the two of them. So not as much wiggle room.

Sam shrugged and threw Tyson a look that was less of an apology and more of a _well-what-can-you-do. _Bastard. “I have a Skype date.”

“Skype your totally real boyfriend while we study, then.” Tyson elbowed Sam in a friendly sort of way. “Is he in a real California college?”

“No,” Sam said. Tyson wasn’t sure which he was replying to. “It’s the first time he has been able to video call in a week. Go have Skype sex with JT.”

Tyson blinked. “Why would we have Skype sex?” Sam started to say something but Tyson cut him off. “We just use FaceTime and Snapchat for that. Like normal people.”

“You can use both hands with a laptop though,” said Sam.

So he was one hundo p making shit up. “You can prop your phone up on something. And it’s easier to get good camera angles with a phone.” Tyson elbowed him again, and Sam elbowed back this time. The nice thing about Sammy was that he wasn’t eight feet tall, so all the elbows landed where Tyson meant them to. “See, if you weren’t making up your boyfriend, you’d know this shit.”

Sam scoffed but didn’t contest the point.

“If you just don’t wanna study tonight you can tell me,” Tyson said after they crested a particularly grueling hill. Walking anywhere after practice was great; he got to feel the muscle strain in his ass the whole time.

“Okay, I don’t want to study tonight,” said Sam. “Because I have a _date._”

“Yeah, you said, but—” Sam made a face, _here we go, _and Tyson huffed. “You gotta admit you’re being suspicious as fuck. I don’t know any guys in Cali. Even if he’s in the closet it’s not like you’d really be outing him.”

“Well,” Sam started. He pulled out his phone, looked at the blank screen for a second, and then shoved it back in his sweatpants pocket. “Well, the thing is, he is in the NHL.”

“Huh.” Somehow that made the whole thing seem less fake. Tyson would probably know an NHL guy. Tyson was _dating _an NHL guy. He chewed on his thumbnail. “Draft buddy?”

Sam snorted and shook his head. “He came to one of our games last year.”

There had been a couple games where NHL players showed up, but the only one that stood out in his mind was when they played in Denver and the Avs leadership team came by, said hi to Tyson and JT. Tyson didn’t know the Pacific as well as he probably should; he didn’t have three California teams’ worth of rosters in his head. “Which game?” he tried.

Sam sighed. “Tyson. I’m not telling you who it is yet. Okay?”

“That’s not suspicious at all,” said Tyson.

He understood not making a big coming-out statement. Like, obviously. He and JT weren't, like, Crosby levels of good; them coming out would overshadow literally anything else they’d do with their careers. So they kept their PDA on the edge of plausible deniability in public, didn’t tell most of the other Hawks. Kerfy’d found out pretty much immediately, because they were already good friends, and they told Sam when he moved in, and Tyson’s and JT’s families both knew. JT had told a few guys on the Avs, so they knew what to expect if—when—whatever—Tyson made it up.

There were more than a few guys in the system like that, not exactly announcing it to the world but not treating it like a state secret either. Sam was quieter than either Tyson or JT, obviously didn’t want people in his business, but this kind of lockdown would drive Tyson crazy. It was already kind of driving Tyson crazy and he wasn’t even the one with an alleged boyfriend.

“I don’t care if you think he is fake,” Sam said patiently, and patted Tyson on the shoulder. “You want to study tomorrow?”

“Yeah, sure,” Tyson said with a sigh. He really did do better with a buddy. Sam was great about smacking him on the head when he got distracted by Instagram.

Sam nodded. “Okay. I’ll come over after practice.” With that, he apparently decided the conversation was over and pulled out his phone.

Tyson followed his example, opening his messages to JT. The Avs _did _have two days off between home games, starting tonight. _Hey skype sex later?_

_Ok, _JT sent back, then, _do we have Skype?_

Hmm. _Discord sex?_

_Ok._

_R u winning son?_

_Nvm dumping you._

Tyson snickered.

“Tyson,” Sam said as they finally reached the bus stop, “you know I like you? We are friends.”

Tyson blinked at him. “Okay?”

“You keep thinking I want to blow you off. I gave you the key to my apartment, I don’t do that with people I don’t like,” Sam said more firmly.

Tyson blinked, slowly, and smiled a little. Then he hipchecked Sam. “Gay.”

“Don’t push your luck."

* * *

The thing was, Tyson wasn’t really convinced.

Maybe if Sam ever actually talked about his alleged boyfriend he would be. Or if he mentioned him at all besides telling Tyson he needed to leave because it was Skype date time. But Sam stayed Sam, stayed quiet, looked at his phone exactly as much as he ever did. When Tyson had started dating JT he’d been embarrassingly distracted about it. He would’ve expected Sam to act at least a _little _different.

After a win about a month into the season, the Hawks went out to a bar near campus. The bartenders wouldn’t serve half of them but they at least pretended not to notice Tyson and Sam and the rest of the underage players drinking out of the communal pitchers. Tyson hung around a darts game after a few beers and even-more-furtively-stolen shots; he saw Sam talking to a pretty girl at a pool table, but when they bumped into each other a few minutes later back at the booth, she was gone.

“Did you want help?” Tyson asked.

“Not that drunk,” Sam said, though he sounded notably Frenchier. Still intelligible, at least. When he got really drunk you could just get French or, sometimes, opera out of him. “I can pour my own beer.”

“With the girl, though.”

It took Sam a minute to process this, long enough for Tyson to pour himself a refill. “I’ve still got a boyfriend,” Sam said finally, and narrowed his eyes. “Is this another fake thing? He's not fake. I told you that a lot.”

“Yeah, _okay,_” Tyson said. Someone had abandoned a couple of buffalo wings on the table. If no one else was eating them Tyson might as well, he decided, and slid into the booth.

“Not _okay,_” Sam said, imitating Tyson’s tone. “Why do you not believe me on this? I told you why I won’t say any more. Do you think I am a liar?”

With most of the people Tyson knew, what you saw was what you got. People got to know Tyson about five seconds after they met him. JT was quiet because he had--Tyson said it with love--the personality of a rock. Sam, though, gave the impression that all his quiet covered up a sneaky core. He wasn’t sure why Sam _would _lie about having a boyfriend for months, but he definitely seemed like he _could._

“Not a liar,” Tyson said slowly. He picked up one of the wings from the basket and started peeling it apart. “It just doesn’t add up to me. I _get _having an NHL boyfriend, you know? I get being in the closet, and keeping my mouth shut when I have to. Just ‘cause I’m not completely on lock doesn’t mean I’m not smart about it. And if your boy keeps things completely on lock, I can go with that too.”

Sam’s frown deepened and he slid into the booth across from Tyson, considered his words while Tyson ate the wing. “So,” he said finally, “it is not about trusting you, okay? If it was that I wouldn’t have told you about me.”

“Sure,” Tyson said.

“But—he trusts me, you know? And he wants to stay in the closet right now, and _he _doesn’t know you, so how can he trust you? Some of his friends know, it isn’t just the two of us, but he’s already dealt with media stuff, and he’s worried about this adding to it.” Sam made a face. “And—okay, if you ever get to know him don’t tell him I said this. But I think it is…generalization?”

Tyson blinked.

“Générationnel?” Sam tried.

The vowels were a little weird, but… “Generational?” Tyson suggested.

Sam nodded, relieved. “Cognate, good, okay. He is in a different generation, and I think that doesn’t help.”

“Huh.” Tyson ran down the list of California players in his head. “So like, Joe Thornton?”

Sam burst into bright laughter. “No! Not that much older, but I'm telling him that is what you asked.”

“Well how was I supposed to know?” Tyson snapped back. He tried to kick Sam under the table but ended up kicking a table leg instead. Then he sighed, irritation leaving as quickly as it had bubbled up. “It doesn’t seem good for you, you know? Staying that far in the closet.”

Sam shrugged. “I don’t need people to know things about me.”

That didn’t seem right to Tyson, but it wasn’t something he could argue with either. “Tell me shit about him then, if he’s real.”

Sam gave him a skeptical look and then relented, taking a swig of his beer while he thought. “He is so full of himself,” he said finally, “but in a good way. He doesn’t seem embarrassed by anything, he’ll just—say things, and it will be the funniest thing you’ve ever heard. Sometimes it seems like he doesn’t care what anyone thinks of him. And he does but he doesn’t? I don’t know. That probably didn’t make sense.”

Honestly Tyson was expecting a description of his hockey or something. “Not even a little bit,” he agreed.

“Well.” Sam sunk down lower in his seat, pillowing his chin on his hand, and smiled vaguely into the distance. Tyson wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Sam look so…gooey. “I worry a lot. You know? And he makes me feel like everything’s—not that it’s okay, he doesn’t sugarcoat, but he puts things in perspective. He’s so smart. And I just. I like him a lot.”

“Oh,” Tyson said. He hadn’t realized Sam worried about much, really. Sam always seemed so chill.

“Also he’s hot,” Sam added. “And like, big.”

Tyson finished off the second wing. “Nice, dude.”

“Like—” Sam sat up and did something complicated with his hands. His already-wide eyes got even wider in emphasis; it made him look like a little haunted doll. “Like, really big, Tyson.”

Tyson snickered. “Get it, Sammy.”

Sam nodded dreamily. Then he declared, “I want nachos,” so they went up to the bar to get some.

* * *

The call-up came a few months later at the end of January, right after the all-star break. Tyson called JT and screamed in his ear for fifteen minutes until his voice gave out and his sister threw a cookie at him. One of the Avs forwards got traded for a couple of draft picks, and all of a sudden Tyson was moving up to Denver, slotting into place in JT’s condo and on the fourth line. It didn’t feel secure—Tyson knew he was one bad streak from getting sent back down—but it was a _start, _at least.

Tyson was too high on life for about a week to think about anything but hockey and JT and his new teammates, and by the time Tyson remembered to think about anything else they were halfway through a west coast road trip, crowded together in an Anaheim bar after kicking the Ducks’s ass.

“Oh shit,” he told JT, deep into his second margarita, “I forgot to look for Sammy’s secret boyfriend.”

“Who’s got a secret boyfriend?” Calvy asked from Tyson’s other side. “You know we know about you two, right?”

Tyson nodded. The Avs who hadn’t known JT and Tyson were dating before Tyson got called up definitely knew by now. “Yeah, but our old teammate’s got an NHL boyfriend in California somewhere and he won’t tell us who. So I was gonna find him, only we’ve already played the Ducks and the Kings, and I know it’s not Joe Thornton.”

“Who’s not Jumbo?” EJ asked, tuning in from the other side of the booth. He had Nate in a headlock but didn’t seem to be too concerned about it. Tyson had been mildly terrified of him since they’d met at the Denver game last year, and his time on the team hadn’t changed that.

“Sammy G’s secret boyfriend,” JT said, longsuffering. He didn’t find the whole thing nearly as interesting as Tyson, but he humored Tyson when he talked about it, so that was the important thing.

Nate made a choking noise somewhere into EJ’s elbow. EJ seemed unfazed and just raised one of his nearly-transparent eyebrows, waiting for more of an explanation.

“Sam’s one of our teammates at UND, got drafted to the Preds a couple years ago,” Tyson explained.

“You guys saw him, I think, when you came down,” JT said. “He’s this really little defenseman? Number 49? Really, like…” He made a little spinny motion with his finger.

EJ made a considering noise. “Oh yeah. That kid.”

“_Kid?_” Nate gasped out. EJ did something that made Nate squeak and then let him go with a shove.

Sometimes Calvy could be a bit of a dad around Tyson, but he sounded amused more than anything when he asked, “How were you even going to find out who the boyfriend is?”

Tyson shrugged. “I dunno, I was going to figure it out when I got here. Only I forgot.”

“Say nasty shit in French, see who reacts?” JT suggested. But of course Tyson had already thought of that. Sam was hardly the only French Canadian in the league.

Nate leaned forward onto the table. He kept biting down on the corner of his mouth like he was trying not to laugh; whatever. “What’s your boy said about this guy? Maybe we can narrow it down.”

It was always nice to have a partner in crime. Unfortunately: “Literally nothing,” said Tyson with some disgust. “Sammy’s a vault, I don’t even know what position this guy plays. Like—lives in California, older than Sam, NHL, hot, came to one of our games.” Tyson drummed his fingertips on the table. “I’m pretty sure he’s super hung ‘cause his name in Sam’s phone is just three horse emojis.”

Nate burst out laughing so hard the table started shaking with it.

“Huh,” said EJ, sliding down the booth a little bit more. He pulled out his phone and started to fiddle with it; in the glare of the screen, his face was oddly red.

“And he told me all this soft shit about his, like, feelings or whatever, but what am I gonna do with that? Like, hey Sharks, have any of you made a tiny French guy turn into puddles of goo lately? Ugh.” Tyson flopped down onto JT’s shoulder. JT patted his hair like, _there there, _only it felt like some of Tyson’s curls were sticking to his hand. Tyson was pretty sure JT’d spilled something on himself, rum by the smell. Whatever. He’d need another shower anyway.

EJ took a long pull of his beer. “Yeah, I’m out,” he said, and pushed past Nate, who was still facedown on the table and laughing. He must’ve been drunker than Tyson had thought. So much for an investigative partner.

“You got any ideas, Calvy?” Tyson asked without much hope.

Calvy hummed, looking thoughtful. “I’m sure you can figure it out, kiddo,” he said comfortingly, which was a really annoying way to say _no, _in Tyson’s opinion.

* * *

In Tyson’s defense, he definitely texted first this time.

He parked at his old apartment, a few blocks from Sam’s, on a Thursday morning a week after the Avs had gotten knocked out of the playoffs. Exams hadn’t started yet and Tyson had to come back to finish packing up his old apartment anyway, now that the Avs were looking at signing him for real. He figured it was as good a time as any to go bother Sam one last time before he was inevitably called up to Nashville. So he loaded some boxes into his car, walked to Sam’s building, and sent a text on his way up the stairs before he let himself in.

The apartment was quiet, and Tyson could hear Sammy humming to himself in the kitchen. “Hey, did you miss me?” Tyson called, rounding the dining room table to peer in the kitchen, and stopped. “Wait. You’re not Sammy.”

It was, in fact, Erik Johnson. He was, in fact, not wearing a shirt.

“Uh,” EJ said. “Nope.”

Erik Johnson, who had come to the visitors’ locker room one day to meet JT and Tyson when the Hawks played in Denver. Erik Johnson who had a house in California—offered to host them there for a barbecue at the end of the summer. Horse girl Erik Johnson.

“What the fuck,” Tyson said, at about the same time Sam sprinted into the kitchen, sliding on the tile. Tyson whirled on him. “EJ’s your fake boyfriend?”

“I told you he wasn’t fake,” said Sam, longsuffering, like _Tyson _was the ridiculous one here.

A lot of things ran through Tyson’s mind. Mostly they were _what the fuck?_

What he ended up saying was, “Yeah, so, I’m gonna go,” and spun on his heel, and then spun back around and said, “Can I tell JT?” Tyson sounded whiny even to his own ears, but that was just because if he couldn’t tell _someone _about this he was literally going to explode.

EJ and Sam looked at each other and did a couple of complicated things with their eyebrows. Tyson raised one of his, just to feel included. “You’re going to anyway,” EJ said finally, which was true but rude, and then rubbed his forehead. “You know what? Just tell the team, it’s fine.”

Sam knocked the back of his hand against EJ’s wrist, frowning. “You sure?”

“Are you?” EJ asked.

If Tyson were less of a nosy bitch he’d feel weird about seeing this conversation. As it was he just tried to figure out how he’d retell it to JT and Kerfy later.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Sam said, rolling his eyes.

Tyson took that as a _yes, go ahead, _so he took a picture of them both, shirtless and framed in the kitchen doorway. It made Sam look about four feet tall, and EJ and Sam gave him identical looks of resignation about it. “Alright, cool, see you guys—later?”

“Later,” Sam agreed with palpable relief. Tyson tried to communicate with his eyebrows that they were _absolutely talking about this _when Sam wasn’t obviously about to get laid.

As Tyson walked out the door he dropped the picture in the team group chat along with the message _look who I ran into today. _He heard five text tones and EJ going, “Jesus _Christ, _Josty,” before he made it down the stairs.

**Author's Note:**

> comments & kudos are, as always, much appreciated.


End file.
